To Catch a Rabbit (25 page)

‘What was your relationship with Mr Holroyd?’

‘He was a mate, a good mate.’

Reg Holroyd coughed loudly, Karen wished he hadn’t because at that moment Johnny looked in their direction, his scalp reddening under his thin hair. A court officer was walking down the aisle from the back of the room. The coroner beckoned him to the bench, where he handed over a note.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the coroner said sternly. ‘I’m going to call a recess for fifteen minutes.’

The court rose and Karen took Reg by the arm and hurried him out into the lobby.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Reg muttered. ‘Why didn’t he tell the truth? Mackenzie was his boss, not his mate. I need a bloody smoke.’

They kept going, out through the glass doors and into the fresh air. Reg wasn’t the only smoker; a muscular looking woman with short hair had just taken out a cigarette and offered Reg a light.

‘You family?’ she said.

‘I’m the father, this is my daughter.’

The woman nodded and sized them up. Karen wanted to be alone with her father, but Reg was obviously feeling sociable.

‘You got kids?’ he said to the woman.

‘A lad, he’s eleven.’

‘I can’t get my head round it,’ Reg continued. ‘That’s my boy they’re talking about. I mean, I’m not saying Phil was a saint but I just don’t recognise a thing they’re saying. Phil, a serial adulterer? Phil with a prostitute? Where are those coppers? I want a word…’

‘Wait.’ Karen realised she had spoken at the same time as the other woman. They’d both reached a hand out to stop him.

Karen waited for the woman to say something, but she looked unsure now. Finally, she cleared her throat and suggested they go back in.

‘Well, he’d better have something to say for himself.’ Reg chewed on the stem of his pipe so hard it might crack.

She took Reg’s arm and propelled him up the steps. ‘Come on, Dad, let’s see.’

Back in the courtroom, the coroner called Mr John Mackenzie back to the stand.

‘May I remind you, Mr Mackenzie, that you are still under oath and that this is a court of law.’ Johnny nodded and looked uncomfortable. The owl-like coroner had a new, steely edge to his voice. ‘You say you were a friend of the deceased?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you not mention that you were also his employer?’

‘He was helping me out a bit.’

‘We’re not the Inland Revenue, Mr Mackenzie. We are trying to ascertain what happened to Mr Holroyd on the day he died.’

‘Yes. I asked him to deliver some stuff for me.’ Johnny was barely audible. The journalist craned forward to catch what he said.

‘Indeed. I have just been shown a missing person’s report filed by the sister of the deceased, suggesting that Mr Holroyd was driving your van.’ Johnny nodded, avoiding Karen’s stare. ‘What concerns me is that I am not satisfied that you have told us the whole truth. I would appeal to you Mr Mackenzie, as you are under oath, not to hide your business dealings in such a way as will jeopardise the outcome of this inquest.’ More whispering, then the coroner, failing to hide his irritation, shuffled his papers and cleared his throat. ‘I am afraid we are in no position to continue this inquest until we have reliable witness evidence. I am adjourning until further notice.’

Johnny wandered away from the stand as the court rose and people started to mill about. The ushers went to open the doors at the back of the room and two uniformed police officers left first. Karen and Reg followed them out into the lobby where the officers stopped and turned, standing like bouncers in front of the automatic glass doors to the outside world. She guided her father between them and as they left the buidling, Karen heard a scuffle behind them and a familiar voice.

‘John Mackenzie. Can I have a word?’

The doors swished shut and she and Reg were left to the sound of cars queuing in the traffic. She was sure it was Charlie Moon’s voice, but when she turned to catch a glimpse of him, all she saw was the street and the sky reflected in the glass.

‘I think there’s more to it than that,’ Sean paused, making sure he’d got her full attention. ‘I’m not sure it’s just about illegal immigrants. He was pulled at the caravan inquest.’

‘So?’ Sandy waited, twirling a ballpoint pen. ‘Spill the beans! If there are any beans to spill. But be careful you don’t let your imagination run away with you.’

Or the imagination of a ten-year-old boy. ‘Never mind. Look, I’d like to chat but I need to find Lizzie Morrison. It’s urgent.’

‘Now, Sean, I know I’m old enough to be your mother and I don’t see why you should take my advice, but…’

‘About the case, Sandy, the case!’ The bottom half of his paper cup imploded as he slammed it on the desk.

‘PCSO Denton?’ He looked up to see a tall woman in a mac. Holroyd’s sister. He was struggling for her married name.

‘Karen Friedman,’ she shook his hand. ‘I wanted to thank you for attending my brother’s funeral.’

‘Right. We thought we should…pay our respects.’

‘And follow your nose.’

‘Ma’am?’ Sean tried to mop up the spilled dregs of his coffee before the brown stream reached Sandy’s keyboard.

‘Actually I’m looking for DCI Moon,’ Mrs Friedman said. ‘Your friend Carly was kind enough to buzz me through.’

Sandy and Sean exchanged glances. Carly had clearly given up playing by the rules. He’d seen her in civvies, skulking around at the back of the inquest and now she was letting all and sundry wander around restricted areas. Not that anyone would notice yet another new face.

‘Interview suite three,’ Sean said, ‘and there’s an observation room next door. Come on I’ll show you.’

He was curious to hear what Johnny Mackenzie had to say. He peered through the one-way glass into suite three and flicked the switch that brought the two men’s voices into the room. Moon had a map spread out on the table and was pointing at something, asking Johnny if this was where they arrived. Johnny shook his head.

‘Wouldn’t know, mate. They just answer job adverts, or they’re friends of the ones we had last year.’

‘Africans? Chinese? They’ve all got papers?’

‘There’s plenty of black people, and Chinese too, born and bred here. Someone’s being a little bit racist if they think I’m employing illegals just because they’re non-white.’ He smiled at Charlie Moon and his shoulders relaxed. Moon smiled back.

‘Do you employ more men than women? Or is it about equal? And what about girls? Young girls?’

Mackenzie’s smile vanished. ‘Are you going to charge me with something? Because if you’re not, then I’ve got a business to run.’

‘Relax. You’re being a great help.’ Moon sat back, while the other man shifted in his chair, folding and unfolding his arms.

‘Come on, push him a bit,’ Sean whispered.

Mrs Friedman was about to say something when the door to the observation room opened.

‘Hello.’ It was DI Rick Houghton. ‘This is cosy.’

‘Have you met Karen Friedman, Human Trafficking Service?’ Sean said.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mrs Friedman said quickly.

‘DI Houghton.’ He shook her hand.

‘PCSO Denton was kind enough to let me listen in, but I’ve heard enough, thank you.’

‘No problem.’ Rick turned to the window.

In the artificial silence of the soundproofed room they heard Johnny Mackenzie giving the DCI some flannel about hardly knowing Forsyth. Sean opened the door for Mrs Friedman and they stepped out into the hum and chatter of the first floor office suite.

Halfway down the corridor she burst out laughing. She sounded a bit crazy.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Please, don’t keep saying that. You make me sound like the Queen. Why did you say I was HTS? I’m not even a police officer.’

‘That makes two of us.’ He laughed too. It felt like the rulebook had been shredded. ‘I’ll just say I got mixed up, it won’t be the first time.’

‘What a strange old day,’ she walked along the corridor slowly, looking at her feet, the laughter had subsided and her voice was sad. Sean sensed her unhappiness creep over him too.

‘Thanks for covering for me,’ she said.

‘No problem.’ The fluorescent lighting flickered above them as they headed for the stairs. He wanted to say more, but he held back.

Over a cup of canteen coffee she asked him why they came to the funeral and if it was on official business.

‘Not officially,’ he said.

‘Thought not.’

‘It’s complicated, but let’s just say Lizzie Morrison, my colleague, was following her forensic nose.’

‘What do you know about Mackenzie?’

Thin ice, thought Sean, very thin ice. ‘This and that. None of it good.’

‘You know, don’t you, that my sister-in-law has moved in with him, with her five-year-old daughter?’

Sean shuddered.

‘I need to know, was he involved in my brother’s death?’

Sean shrugged. ‘I really don’t know.’

But I do know something, he thought, and I’ve kept it to myself. His heart was racing. Suddenly that old phrase, getting something off your chest, made sense. It was a real physical feeling. He was trying to remember if Arieta had ever mentioned Mackenzie. He could ask Maureen. He felt a creeping chill up the back of his neck. The chill began to take the form of the question. What if Arieta was working with Mackenzie? Together they could have killed Philip Holroyd. Declan’s zombie theory put her in the caravan the night before the murder. If Arieta was a suspect in the death of Philip Holroyd, the woman in front of him was the last person on earth he should share that with, however much he might want to tell someone. At that moment, to Sean’s relief, he saw Charlie Moon weaving between the tables of the canteen, heading in their direction.

Charlie saw her out to the pavement. The cool air was a relief after the over-heated police station.

‘You okay?’ He let his hand brush her arm.

‘Bit dazed to be honest. I was beginning to think the inquest was worse than the funeral but then another part of my brain kicked in. Started playing detective, I suppose. Sorry.’

‘And what did your brain come up with?’

‘Mackenzie. Where was he when Phil went missing?’

‘Fair question,’ he moved a strand of hair off her face. ‘Look, I want to catch Lizzie Morrison. There’s something I need to follow up.’

She felt a surprising pang of jealousy. The young forensic officer was pretty, and young, and she’d worked with Charlie before. She pushed the thought away and headed for St. Sepulchre Gate to rescue her father from McDonald’s.

On the train, she bought her father a sandwich and a beer. She’d decided to go back with him to Hitchin and stay the night. He was shaky and she didn’t want him to be on his own. Her own appetite had deserted her, so she got a half bottle of red wine.
They shared a table with two women in their seventies, travelling south from Newcastle to a Women’s Institute conference. One was thin with straight hair, while her friend was round, red-cheeked and smiley, with a mass of white curls. Karen thought of Aunt Spiker and Aunt Sponge from ‘James And The Giant Peach’. She sat back as her father got drawn into a conversation about voting structures and jam recipes. When their neighbours went to the buffet, he asked her if she’d managed to see anyone useful at the police station.

‘There was a very helpful officer there.’ Just an officer? The memory of Charlie’s touch made the hairs on her arm stand on end. She gulped a mouthful of wine. ‘It seems there’s a link with human trafficking.’

‘That’s why they wanted to talk to Mr Mackenzie? I thought for a minute there, at the court…’

‘I didn’t find out much more.’

She cut him off just as the two women returned with tea and fruitcake. Before long, they’d moved on to a discussion about lawn management and Reg was offering them gardening tips. She recognised the brittle cheer in his tone. She remembered how whenever things got too grim with her mother’s illness, Reg would always change the subject, be ready with a joke or an anecdote. Now he was entertaining these two ladies with the tale of the time he’d drawn a hammer and sickle on the lawn with weedkiller.

‘I remember! Mum made you re-sow it, she was mortified.’

‘Not the done thing in Hitchin.’

‘But fascinating. You must tell me your method,’ Aunt Sponge leant forward, as much as her size would allow. ‘The possibilities are endless if one wanted to make a protest.’

Karen stared out through her own reflection at occasional dots of orange light in swathes of nothing. She hardly heard the conversation going on beside her. Her father was asking the women about the village they lived in. He knew the name of the place and they began talking about its history.
Miners moving from Cornwall to North Yorkshire and onwards to County Durham.
Her father’s voice lingered somewhere just beyond her consciousness. Seventeenth century migrant labour. She thought about Johnny Mackenzie and his comment to Charlie about the Africans and Chinese. How had he got Phil involved in all of that? The more she tried to understand, the more she realised she had no idea about what her brother’s life had been all about.